


Holy Chimichangas

by sifshadowheart



Series: Prologue Crossover Challenge [5]
Category: Deadpool (2016), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gen, M/M, Mutant Harry, Slash, three-shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-09-23 13:13:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9658970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sifshadowheart/pseuds/sifshadowheart
Summary: Death offers his Master a way to escape from the forces controlling him in the wizarding world.Harry probably should've asked for a better explanation on just what Death was going to do to him in the process.And what the f*3% is a mutant?





	1. Prologue

** Holy Chimichangas **

**A Harry Potter/Deadpool Crossover**

**_Author’s Note: :_ ** _This is number five of the many crossovers I managed to make happen from the same prologue challenge._

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and Deadpool are both the properties of their respective owners and no profit was made by the writer of this fanfiction.

**Prologue:**

**A Very Harry Happening**

“Please tell me I’m actually dead this time.”

Harry’s voice came out in a deadpan as he opened his eyes in an all-too-familiar location.

He hadn’t been back to Platform 9 ¾ since leaving for his final (eighth) year of Hogwarts.

There was no need, as he had neither friends at the ancient school nor any children to send off.  Though he supposed Teddy was almost there, but it wasn’t yet September and that nightmare of first-year anxiety was months away.  Andromeda would handle most of it, as she’d done with the rest of the day-to-day of raising his godson/her grandson.  But Harry would still be the one the young Lupin would lean on for those first-day jitters.

Well.

He would have been.

But being a Hit Wizard wasn’t exactly all sunshine and roses, and Harry had already beaten the odds more than once.

Moreover, he’d recognized that sickly-purple spell the newest wave of wizarding-cult-followers had shot at him.  Hell.  He’d used the _Sectumsempra_ more than once in the line of duty.

He’d felt it hit across his upper chest and neck.

He’d felt himself get cold and his vision – finally corrected after reaching his majority and being able to request and pay for the expensive potion – fade out.

Harry had died.

Again.

Though maybe this time it would take, even if it would leave behind a grieving Teddy.

Harry didn’t try and fool himself.

After he’d thrown off everyone’s expectations, taking up his seats in the Wizengamot and going after his Inheritance that everyone had somehow neglected to mention *cough, Dumbledore, cough, Weasleys, cough*, not many people would miss him other than his godson.

He imagined that even Andromeda, stern matriarch that she was, would only miss having his support and more importantly his name to throw around, more than him himself.

No.

Going back to Hogwarts, not what the Ministry wanted or the public expected, but still within the “allowable” realm of behavior.

Accepting all his vaults, his titles, and his responsibilities, well, it wasn’t what anyone wanted for him, per se, but it wasn’t beyond the pale either.

It was when he entered Hit Wizard training instead of Auror Academy that people started to twitch.

Harry was already considered volatile, powerful, and somewhat dangerous.

Joining the ranks of witches and wizards who were the Wizarding World’s version of Special Forces crossed with MI6…that started up a tone of concern, though it was levied in part that as a Hit Wizard he was ostensibly under the aegis of the Ministry and all-was-still-well.

It was also the first real strike against the tidy “plan” that had been set in motion for his life, ever since he was born and likely before he was even conceived.

The Wizarding World liked things neat and tidy in their little labeled boxes.

Potters were Aurors.

Malfoys were Politicians.

Blacks were eccentric (or flat-out crazy) Nobles.

And so on, into infinity.

But Harry bucked centuries of tradition and went into the more dangerous field of being a Hit Wizard, which carried with it a ten-year expiration date: either you died before then (which was ninety percent of them) or you retired and either taught the oncoming young-bloods or transferred into the DMLE either as an administrator of some kind or as an Auror.

Harry’s ten-year mark was coming up soon, and he’d made it despite curses, hexes, vampires (and wasn’t that a fun case…) and now this new muggleborn-driven cult that wanted, irony of ironies, to tear down the Statute of Secrecy and usher in a world where wizard kind were benign rulers.

This shit just never ended.

It simply changed faces.

He could almost hear Tom laughing from the gates of Hell where he was no doubt waiting for Harry to show up.

Harry had no illusions about himself.  Not anymore.  He might’ve made a middling-to-good godfather when he wasn’t dodging curses or blood-sucking-fiends, but he also killed his first man at the age of eleven and thereafter never really…stopped.

Oh, there were lulls, and sometimes it was creatures that he ended up ending instead of people, but it was as if once his heart got a taste of death it never forgot it – or how easy it was to dole it out.

He had a survival instinct that was, even he could admit, second to none, surviving things that would have killed anyone else.

And this time that survival instinct was screaming at him that he’d finally failed to listen to it in time.

Most of all…Harry was just tired.

Not so much of his job, he’d been damn good as a Hit Wizard, nor of his role as godfather though he was glad that he’d got to at least spend the last ten years with Teddy.

But tired, oh yes, he was tired of other things.

Tired of the expectations of him to finally “settle down” with an appropriate witch and start popping out mini-Potters, especially with his retirement from active duty Hit Wizard coming up.

Tired of having to explain, again, that no, he wasn’t interested in Ginny for the five-thousandth-time when he went to the Burrow for Sunday dinner.

Tired of Hermione trying to use him name and influence to direct the Wizarding World.

Tired of Ron trying to use their shared adventures to advance his Auror career.

Tired of being seen as everyone’s favorite bankroll, after all, it wasn’t like he had any family to spend his galleons on, Harry.

Just tired of all the bullshit.

And now, unless this was a potions-induced psychotropic trip, he could finally rest.

Sighing, he blinked his eyes in the wake of the glowing-white-haze the Platform was covered in and wearily climbed to his feet, absently noticing that like his previous visit he was wearing the same clothes as he remembered before taking the death-blow but clean, though this time it was his Hit Wizard wear of gunmetal-grey Horntail dragonhide trousers, boots, and gloves matched with a goblin-forged steel-mail undershirt topping a soft cotton undervest and topped in turn by a wool long-sleeved tunic in dove grey, a basilisk-hide sleeveless dueling robe that had a hood and dropped to the top of his knee-high boots thrown over it all.  On the left side of his tunic was his rank as a Hit Wizard, no surprise that after nearly a decade in the field, it was of a Field Commander, the words embroidered in the same venom-green of his basilisk robe, with his call sign: Vixa, under it and the nine gunmetal-grey stars that signified each year of service.

His wand was missing from Horntail-hide holster on his right arm, having been dropped when he, well, died, but he felt the comforting weight of his favorite knife still tucked inside his left boot.

“Sorry, son.”  He heard from behind him the voice was soothing and gentle but with an underlying rasp, Harry turning to face the speaker, one he didn’t think he’d ever met before in his life…unlike last time.  “But far be it for Death to forsake His Master in such a way.”

“Merlin.”  He cursed, rubbing at his tired emerald green eyes.  “For once I wish it wasn’t me.”

Harry eyed the other man – if a man at all was what the other figure was.  He was…utterly normal in just about every way.  Harry knew operatives on the muggle side of things that would kill to have his seeming blandness, that ability to be everyone and no one all at once.  Grey hair, a sober face that was handsome but not overly or memorably so, soft grey eyes, and dressed in a muggle suit in black with a mandarin collar, there was nothing remarkable about him not his looks, his middling height, nothing.

Nothing at all, save his voice that had a resonance that struck at the very heart of Harry.

“But it is you.”  Death said, folding his hands elegantly before him, watching Harry with a sort of paternal pride and care.  “You are the last of the Peverells, the last of my chosen Wizards.  You collected all my Hallows, and yet never sought them.  And you who cast them away, breaking and burning the wand, turning the stone to powder, only keeping the last, the Cloak that was handed down from father-to-son, for your own.”  There was no mistaking it, Death was proud of him.  Proud and entertained, unless Harry’s instincts were off.  “There is no other I would have ever chosen – nor did I, when I gave the Three my Gifts and sent them out into the world.  I always knew it would be you, Harry.  And I’m very glad it was.”

“Omniscience…great.”  Harry said with a sigh, barely holding in an eye roll.  He was tempted to give into sarcasm but had enough self-preservation, even while mostly-dead, to refrain in the presence of a deity…of some kind.  “To recap: you met my ancestors, gave them the Hallows, all so that I would become your Master, which I never wanted to be in the first place.”  Harry held out his arms in a Here-I-Am gesture.  “Now what?”

“That is, for the first time,” Death gave him a gentle look of understanding.  “Entirely up to you, son.  Should you wish it you can return to your life, knowing that you are my Master and therefore will have a problem staying dead.  If you wish, you can summon the Hallows to you before you return.  Or you can choose to go on: either to your well-deserved rest having lived a half-life or…”

Harry knew he was going to regret this but his damned-infernal curiosity would torture him for ages if he didn’t do it.  “Or…?”

“You will never have the life you want, the life you were meant to have before Fate meddled with you, if you go back.”  Death looked unbearably pissed-off at the mention of Fate meddling.  Something to think on later, as well as what it implied about both entities? Deities?  Whatever.  A problem for another time.  “Nor can you remain in these Crossroads without becoming a wraith yourself, even the Master of Death is still human, and this is not a place for a soul such as yours.”

“Then I can go on.”  Harry said softly, voice wistful as he stared off at something only he could see.  He could almost hear the voices of his parents, of Sirius and Remus and even Severus, calling out to him.  “To my rest.”  The quirk of his lips was nothing short of bitter.  “I rather think I’ve earned that much.”

“Yes, I daresay you have.”  Death agreed easily with that much.  “You have single-handedly at times and jointly at others, saved no less than millions of lives, both magical and otherwise by your deeds.  You were a true hero in your life and have earned a hero’s rest.  However, there is another path that you might take.”  Death’s eyes gleamed with unearthly brightness for a moment.  “This is, after all, a Crossroads: there are more choices than merely forwards or back.”

“Such as?”

“I can return you to another time in your same world, with all your same knowledge and powers.”  Death waved his arms, and several trains pulled into the station, the first an inky black, the second a blinding white, the third a dove grey, and the last an emerald green.  “I can send you back to your life the very moment you were struck down, merely with a lesser wound, I can send you onwards to your rest, or,” Death’s smile was too toothsome to be comforting.  “I can send you to a place outside of the influences that have thus far guided your life.  The choice, my son, is up to you.”

“I know I don’t want to go back to the way things were.”  Harry admitted with a sigh, Death nodding and the white train disappearing.  “I’m tired of playing their hero.”  He thought for a moment and gave a sneer.  “And as tempting as it is to go back to another time in my own world, to change things, make them better,” he snorted.  “I’ve already bled enough for them; why should they have any more of me?”

“Why, indeed?”  Death asked lowly, waving an arm and the black train fading away.

Honestly, the deity hadn’t been sure if this Harry would choose to go back and “fix-it” as many other Harrys have.  After all, as quantum cosmology put it: everything that can happen will happen in opposite and parallel universes.  This is merely the first time this Harry has stood before him and they’ve had a version of this same conversation.

Though granted when you thought of it that way, this was the first time this Death has done so as well.

It was enough to give a deity a headache…if deities got headaches.

“Which only leaves the question:” Harry said to himself, staring at the two trains.  “Do I rest, or do I bite the apple that’s been offered to tempt me?”

“It isn’t poisoned; I can reassure you of that much.”  Death smirked.  “But neither is that choice without struggle or conflict.  Choosing to step outside of our influences will lose you your inability to stay dead for one: where you go I would not be able to extend my grasp.  But at the same time, Fate won’t be able to toy with you any longer: you will also be outside of Her reach.”

“What else can you tell me?”

“I can give you the information about that world you’ll need to survive the first thirty days.”  Death folded his arms in front of his chest, a knowing arch to his brow.  “Anything outside of that, you’ll have to bargain for: Death may be neutral, and you my Master, but there are rules to such things that even we cannot disobey.”

“You said I can summon the remains of the Hallows.”  Harry lit on what Death meant almost immediately.  “What can I ask for in exchange for returning them to you?”

“The Wand was a weapon to best all others.”  Death intoned solemnly, a chilling reverb in his voice.  “I can supply you with one that with practice and work will be the same.  The Stone was designed to recall a loved one from Me: I can give you the ability to escape my grasp.  And the Cloak when mastered and used wisely could hide anyone from even Me: I can grant you the skill to do the same in your new home.”

“A weapon, pseudo-immortality, and a skill.”  Harry summed up, turning it over and over in his mind.  “What about my other things?  Can I have any of them in my new life?”

“I cannot touch that that isn’t yours alone.”  Death said slowly, thinking of how best to word his answer.  “But there will be things I can send along with you as part of your ‘grace period’ as it were.”

“What isn’t mine alone…hmm…”  Harry pondered that.  “The contents of my trust vault and my personal work vault then.”  He decided fit the bill.  “Only in a bottomless trunk or bag from my vault and made into a form that won’t draw attention.  My clothes, say all my Hit Wizard uniforms save for my dress uniform that I’ll be buried in, and my boots.  My personal potions store.  Everything else I suppose all belongs to Teddy now…or was my own inheritance and not strictly mine.”

“It shall be as you ask, if a new home is the choice you make.”  Death agreed with a regal incline of his head.  “Save for things that cannot or will not function in your new home, that is.  There may be artefacts and the like that won’t work where you’re going.”

“I think we both know what I’ve decided.”  Harry drawled with a half-smile.  “I’m tired enough to want to rest, but still curious enough to take your bait.  Send me on: to a place where those that have influenced my life cannot touch me.”

“As you wish.”  Death nodded his head and the green train disappeared, leaving only the dove grey in its place to carry Harry onward.  “It shall be done: Master of Death.”  The deity looked far off for a moment and smoke and vapor started to climb from the engine’s smokestack.  “What shall your name be, Master, in your new life?”  He asked several moments later after Harry had carried through with his half of the bargain and summoned the Hallows, setting them down on the bench beside him.

“I’ve always wanted to be just Harry.”  The green-eyed wizard said with a little laugh.  “But unless I’m going back in time as well as far away, I don’t think that’ll cut it.”

“No, son.”  Death chuckled a little as he made several things materialize in his lean hands.  “It won’t.”

He handed the items over to Harry, the wizard arching a brow at the all-too-familiar sword though this time it was housed in a basilisk hide sheath, likely the only thing that could protect the bearer or others from its deadly venomous blade.  Rolling his eyes a bit at the vicious grin on Death’s face, Harry threw the buckled sheath on over his robe, settling it onto his back with the ease of someone who has undergone serious weapons training as a Hit Wizard.  It wouldn’t be the first time he’d used a sword in the last decade, though he – or anyone for that matter – hadn’t seen this one since Neville killed Nagini with it.

Harry had to admit, as far as trades go, an unbeatable Wand for a poisonous, deadly sword wasn’t a bad deal.

Even if the rubies made it a bit flashy for his taste.

Next went on the plain black canvas bag, likely containing the things he’d asked for that “belonged” to him, Death tapping the small pocket on the front of the bag.

“Inside you’ll find your new identity and information on your _pseudo-immortality_.”  Death warned.  “Read the information I’ve provided thoroughly before you go running around willy-nilly.  A gift can quickly become a plague upon yourself if it isn’t handled correctly.”

“I understand.”  Harry nodded once, sharply.  “Will I understand the information with my current level of knowledge?”

“Once I’ve given you the information you’ll need to survive and your new skill-set: yet.”  Death smirked a little.  “Though I would wager that even without it you would’ve figured it out…in time.”

“Okay then…”  Harry shrugged on the pack over top of the sheath but not so it was blocking the hilt of the sword and preventing a clean draw.  “Anything else?”

“Just this.”  Quick as a viper, Death reached out and pressed the palm of one hand to Harry’s forehead.

The smaller figure screamed and writhed in place as information was literally shoved into his mind, tearing through his mental barriers like tinfoil and making his nose drip blood from the strain.

“Fuck!”  He cried out as Death finally let him loose, hunching over with his hands on his knees.  “What the fuck was that?!”

“That.”  Death answered dryly as he escorted Harry over to the open door of the waiting train.  “Was what you can call an information download.  Not pleasant in the least, but effective.  You’ll survive what’s coming now.”  He waved one hand to the open doors, beckoning Harry forward.  “Or at least, you should.  Meditate while you travel, where you’re going is no little distance away…and you’ll need to be prepared for anything the moment you arrive.”

“Okay.”  Harry blew out a breath.  “Be prepared, survive, any other advice before we part ways, hopefully for a long, long time?”

“Just one:” Death said softly, the paternal mien returning.  “This life has taught you to block yourself off from others, to withhold your trust and guard your heart: and those were and are necessary skills for you to survive.  But.”  He held up a warning hand when Harry went to protest.  “But, there will come a time when you’ll need to trust to survive, and to open your heart if you want to live…and not just survive.”

Harry nodded, once, shortly, jaw clenched at the implied censure.

As if he hadn’t heard similar things before, most recently from Andromeda, over his shunning of Alphas and even Betas, who were brought to him in an attempt to matchmake.

“Harry Potter Black.”  He decided, ignoring the opportunity to respond to Death’s advice.  “That’ll be my name.  Harry P. Black.”

“Very well.”  Death nodded, the doors beginning to close.  “Your destination is New York City, 2014…and magic doesn’t truly exist in that world, not as you know it here…though there are things that count among the supernatural to be found.”

“Ok.”  Harry said stepped back before cocking his head and raising his hand briefly in goodbye to his old friend.

…

He wondered and worried about some of the things Death implied – or out-right stated about his “new world” as he settled into a seat and the train began to move.

No magic for one – or at least – not as he understood it.

That was worrisome, making him unsure about whether his own magic would work.  Or not.  Or just a little.  Which was all somewhat moot as he didn’t have a wand anyway and he only had a few skills in his wandless repertoire.

Don’t get him wrong, they were dead useful skills to have, which was why he’d taken the time and massive effort to learn them wandless _: Epsikey, Tergeo, Stupefy, Allohomora, Accio_ , and _Windgarium Leviosa_ , none of which are necessarily high-level spells but could be learned wandless and even wordless, as he’d done.

The only other magical skills he had that could be done without a wand were his Animagus transformation and a few blood-based rituals he knew to use in warding that he had to learn to take control of his family properties as well as Grimmauld Place.

That was if using his magic didn’t fry whatever electronics he was around, as since this wasn’t a magical world he was going to, and the year 2014, electronics were going to be a fact of life as Death had referenced the New York City, meaning Earth.

Even if he didn’t recall where _exactly_ New York was other than the eastern United States from his geography lessons in primary school.

So it might be a different Earth, and surely was, but still Earth all the same.

Sinking into his meditation to process the migraine-inducing information overload he’d gotten, Harry arched a brow at one of the first things he found: his new skill-set.

Part of being a Hit Wizard was undergoing a course with the muggle military on survivalism, as well as tracking and bringing down targets.  What he’d gotten in exchange for the Cloak was a different set of skills entirely, though not one that was completely alien due to the aforementioned training.  It was what his trainer/mentor for the Hit Wizards called “Ghost Training” and something Harry hadn’t gotten into as he was slotted into the Hit Wizards when they were short “Tanks”, powerhouses that were mostly used to cause shock, awe, and leave a wave of destruction in their wake.  With his magical core, and proven ability to deal damage, making him into a Tank-Class Hit Wizard simply made sense over the other two classes which were Proteus-Class a kind of jack-of-all-trades that filled in the blanks between Tanks and Ghosts, and the Ghost-Class which were the lone-wolves of the Hit Wizards.  Ghosts were able to adapt to any surroundings, survive any terrain or environment, gathering intelligence or taking out threats as needed.

Needless to say, Tanks and Ghosts rarely worked together, mainly backed up by Proteus who were the bulk and the back-bone of the Hit Wizards.

Altogether, Harry would wager that there were only ever a handful of fully-trained Tanks or Ghosts in the ranks at any given time, whereas all the rest were Proteus.

Wave after wave of instinct, skills, and habits flooded his mind as the information Death gave him to ensure he’d survive the first month met and married up with the skill-set he’d bargained for, Harry suddenly just knowing that he was going to New York City meant that he would have to deal with smog, frigid cold, and sweltering heat as well as all the health problems those things made, and deal with the massive population found there.  Unless he decided to relocate immediately, _people_ were likely to be a much bigger problem than the weather.  And, he frowned as a new piece of information made itself known, a class of humans calling themselves mutants.

Who knew?

Not Harry before now.

Another piece of information, more of a whisper than a shout, which from what he could tell meant it was unconfirmed info of the whisper/gossip sort, told him that New York was very much a well-spring of issues surrounding _mutants_ and Merlin’s-honest-truth _superheroes_ and the problems and villains that came along with both.

“Well.”  He murmured as piece by piece his new skills and information settled into place.  “At least now I know why Death gave me a damn sword.  I might very well have to use it if there’s overpowered hostiles in the area despite it supposedly being a modern society.”

…

Feeling muzzy-headed and still fighting off a migraine, Harry knew when he was close to his destination, sensing the motion of the train slowing down.

Standing and shaking his head, he took a deep breath, steeling himself to step out and into a life filled with unknown challenges – save that it was going to be a challenge, Death would’ve have given him the information, the tools and skills he had, if it was going to be an easy coast to easy street.

No, Harry chuckled, somehow a soft, easy life wasn’t ever in the cards for him.

But if he was honest with himself, that sounded boring as shit anyway.

Stretching up onto his toes, he mentally thanked restoration/nutrition potions as well as a late-teens growth spurt that he wasn’t a damn shrimp anymore.  Being stuck at well-below average height and weight for a male of European extraction would’ve sucked, especially undergoing his weapons training and physical combat training to be a Tank.  Granted, even with magical help he didn’t hit the 6’ 3” of his father or even the 6’ 1” of his godfather, but an even six-foot-flat was a lot better than the 5’ 6” he was when he faced off against Voldemort, magic taking care of his vision issues as well.

Magic had also helped his eating issue – or rather the involuntary eating disorder he’d gotten from years of sustained and systematic neglect and abuse – which in turn helped him pack on pounds in the form of muscle, even if he’d never be as tall or muscled as he was supposed to be.

It started as being nothing but muscle, skin, and bone from his childhood, but even with a specialized diet, exercise, and potions regiment, Harry would still never be the “ideal” of his genetic potential.

And he was fine with that, since as far as he could tell, he wasn’t an ideal person in any other way either.

Steadying himself as the train slowed to a stop, the doors cracking open and showing a dense urban jungle to his right with a massive bridge to his left, Harry taking one last look around the train and closed his eyes, wrinkling his nose at the smell of humanity and smog then stepping out into what looked like a – mostly clean – alleyway across from a modest hotel.

That answered that.

Death gave enough of a damn about him to drop him somewhere he could take care of his wounds so he didn’t keel over right away.

Good to know.

Setting down his pack, Harry quickly traded out his clothes for some that didn’t have rips and bloodstains on them, tucking away his sword.  If he was going to get a room for the night, he couldn’t exactly look like the walking dead.  He _needed_ time to adjust to all the information he’d been force-fed, more than he’d had on the trip.  And, oh yeah, heal from the damned _Sectumsempra_ that killed him.

It was only a deep slice or two across his upper chest now, but it still could kill him yet if he didn’t take care of it.

Thankfully, it had scabbed over enough that he wasn’t leaving a massive blood pool on the pavement as he quickly used a _Tergeo_ and an _Episkey_ to take care of most of the sluggishly oozing blood – the bleeding starting up as soon as he stepped back into the mortal plane.  He wrapped it up tight, then pulled out the couple of things he’d need to take care of himself…before he became a spectacle on the street.

 “Maybe now’s the time to try and train up some other wandless spells.”  He told himself as he dug out his potions supply and knocked back a few for healing, blood replenishment, and a Pepper-Up to get him through arranging a room.

He knew there wouldn’t be food in his supplies he could easily get to at the moment – and Merlin, but he was hungry – but there might be a med kit or other things that he didn’t realize were covered under the “his personal property” clause of his deal…and this was a major city, he could always have something delivered.

Dressed and at least partially presentable, he shouldered his canvas pack after hitting it with another _Tergeo_ to remove any blood it’d picked up from him, then loped easily across the quiet street in the pre-dawn gloom.  He’d already found and pocketed the identification Death had provided, including a debit card with a bank statement that had him thinking Death had converted at least half of his personal assets into cash to set him up in this new world.

Or he was a hacker…either way.

A flash of white teeth, a hint of British accent, and the giving over of his new debit card had Harry tucked away in a modest hotel room that boasted a king-sized bed, a mini-fridge/microwave combination, and a television mounted to the wall with a remote on an extending tether.  The bathroom held his interest much longer than the brief glance around the bedroom, and he readily indulged in a shower to wipe away any lingering battle (and death-plane) grime.  Towel around his hips and running one through his messy black hair, he called in an order for delivery Chinese – he did love major cities - then Harry started sorting through everything Death had seen fit to send with him into this new life.

A nutrition potion – thanks to his paranoia over keeping a full potions stock for emergencies after living on the run for a year – took the edge off his hunger even if it didn’t sate it, allowing him to focus on his job of sorting his stuff out – and then repacking it all over again.

If it wasn’t something useful in a mostly non-magical world – like the gold, silver, and bronze from his vaults would prove to be in getting some cash-in-hand rather than relying on his new card – he stuffed it away in several of the bottomless pouches he’d had in his vaults and put them in the very bottom of his pack.

Semi-useful things – books, excess clothing, etc. – went into another bag on top of the useless items, while the actually of-use supplies went into a variety of the outer pockets of the pack, Harry taking the time to remove the information on his new “ability” while he was at it and repurpose that pocket.

One med kit found Harry removed the bandages only to raise a brow when he saw that his wounds were already healed – and had left him scar free.  Quickly scanning the brief note from Death, he groaned quietly when he saw just what it was the deity had meant by being able to escape his grasp.  Death had given him something in this new-world that they called a healing factor…officially making him a mutant even if you discarded his other powers.

As it was supposed to be nearly-instant, Harry could only suppose that since he’d gained the wounds prior to his death and receiving the healing factor that it had taken his body a little while to realize that they _were_ in fact damage and not part of his normal physiology.

On top of his potions supply, and the med kit that he thought came from under his bathroom sink, Harry had found several more knives, most of which went into various places on him before the overflow went into his pack, matches, that day’s Daily Prophet (at least it would give him something to ground himself with when he though his old world a dream), and other small personal items like his hygiene products, Hit Wizard gear, and other odds and ends.

It wasn’t a supply meant to sustain him forever, that was for sure, and he’d have to hunt around the city in the morning to find shops and grocers…and a place to live, but all in all…could be worse.

Yeah, he decided as his Chinese delivery, pre-paid via his card, knocked on the hotel room door.

Definitely could be worse.

 


	2. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry meets Wade

** Holy Chimichangas **

_Author’s Note: This chapter is a lot shorter than my average, mainly because this story is going to be one of my shorter fics._

**Chapter One**

**_Last Time_ :** It wasn’t a supply meant to sustain him forever, that was for sure, and he’d have to hunt around the city in the morning to find shops and grocers…and a place to live, but all in all…could be worse.

Yeah, he decided as his Chinese delivery, pre-paid via his card, knocked on the hotel room door.

Definitely could be worse.

…

 

_Six Months Later_

Harry wasn’t sure what it said about NYC in this universe that he could wander around the streets after dark, and go grocery shopping or run any other errands, all with a bastard sword strapped to his back, but he didn’t think it was anything _good_.

It hadn’t taken him long after stepping out into his new reality to realize that despite the lack of in-your-face magic, this world’s standard daily life was a lot stranger than anything he was used to.

Case in point: Harry wearing his sword 24/7.

One run-in with an asshole who was trying to rob a back with his “powers” – some form of impossible-to-stop momentum mutation – had been all it took for Harry to run around with his sword.  It had taken one hell of an ass-kicking – on both of their parts – and more than one _Stupefy_ to bring that guy down.  The only thing that kept _him_ from being taken in by the NYPD was his ability to blend in and disappear in plain sight.

His armor never even got a second look, any more than the mask that covered the lower half of his face did.

Yeah, NYC in the era of mutants was more than willing to look the other way when it came to “Vixa” who the public seemed to have decided was a cross between their beloved Winter Soldier who fought alongside their even _more_ beloved Captain American and the X-Men.  Only Harry didn’t go out actively _looking_ for trouble, which seemed to have endeared him even more to his neighbors.  Trouble just had a way of running into him.

All he’d wanted was a quiet afterlife…but his deal with Death had effectively put paid to that aspiration.

Instead, he’d gotten borderline superpowers and a loft apartment in Hell’s Kitchen.

Which was thankfully far enough away from Hellhouse or Sister Margaret’s depending on who you talked to, the bar tucked away in Chinatown that he’d hit up a time or two for jobs.

When he’d found out about the bar in the former boarding school, Harry’d been just amused.

 _Then_ he’d found out that the bar was the main hub for mercenaries on the eastern seaboard…and his interest when from vague to professional in the blink of an eye.  Harry didn’t consider himself a merc, not by any means.  Not that there was anything wrong with the profession, not at all.  But the ones that took jobs through Sister Margaret’s were the kind that Harry felt a need to keep an eye on – because those offering the jobs through Patch knew as well as they did that sometimes they were jobs that would put a merc either in the sights of the NYPD or the X-Men or the Avengers.  Jobs that were too dangerous to handle cleanly and too sketchy to go to the resident superheroes to handle.

It wasn’t like the slum lord from 62nd could go to Captain America because his stripper-daughter had gotten hook on X and was _working_ her debt off to her dealer in a less-than-legal manner.

So slum lord puts up a job at Hellhouse, and someone who cares more about their next drink than legalities goes to get her out…or dies trying.

Harry kept an eye on the place for just that reason: the jobs were shady, but more often than not there’d be an underlying victim that needed help more than they needed a superhero to judge them or lock them up afterwards.

Jobs that without his healing factor and other abilities that even he might not have walked away from.

Though if Fancy-Shades-Stick-Up-His-Ass from Xavier’s School tries to scold him _one more time_ , Harry won’t be held accountable for what he does to the boy scout.

Wandering back into Hellhouse fresh off a job entirely too dangerous for most mercs to handle, Harry reported in to the bartender/information broker Weasel who was on staff tonight, Patch off Death-knows-where doing Death-knows-what.

“Ah hah,” Weasel greeted the British man who was half-merc, half-vigilante, and all-attitude.  “If it isn’t my favorite Mission: Impossible merc.  How’d it go, Vixa?”

Rather than engage the often-annoying bartender, who’d thought when they first met that his codename from his overrobe – which looked more like a modern ankle-length leather duster than it did HitWizard-wear – as his real name, Harry handed over his gold card from his latest round of rescue-hostage, beat the shit out of kidnapper.  Harry had never seen the point to informing the smarmy little bastard otherwise.  And it gave him just another degree of separation between the mercs that he half watched out for and half kept an eye on, as well as the angry recipients on the other end of his _jobs_.

“Surly asshole aren’t you?”  Weasel snarked, handing over the payday which Harry took pleasure in obnoxiously counting out while still staying silent before handing over a “handler’s fee” of a hundred bucks.  Unlike some of the others who gave a percentage no matter the payout, Harry always did a flat hundred whether the payday was barely more than that or a hundred times it.  Others thought giving a percentage would “inspire” Weasel and Patch to give out the higher paying jobs to those who handed over the highest percentage…which was utter bullshit.  They gave jobs to whoever could _handle_ them since it did them – and Hellhouse’s reputation – zero good to send useless mercs out on the hardest jobs.  “Fuck you very much.”  Weasel rolled his eyes and snagged the benjamin on the bar.  “Stingy bastard.”

“Ah come on, Weasel.”  A new arrival, one Harry hadn’t seen before.  Emerald eyes dragged over a long, lean body and a pretty face with only a notched eyebrow scar to mar it.  Oh, yeah, he’d definitely hadn’t met this one before.  Anything _that_ prime he would’ve remembered.  “Maybe the pretty just knows you’re a greedy little fuckhead…or he’s just smart enough to know the score.”  That pretty head cocked to one side, hazel eyes dragging with equal slow thoroughness over Harry’s own body.

“Don’t you start too, Wade.”  Weasel pointed at the other merc.  “Bad enough to deal with _his_ shit,” he jerked a thumb at Harry.  “For all that he never says a damn word to me.  What about your job?”

“Done and done.”  Wade flicked his own proof at the bartender.  “Since when do we take babysitting money to pay for jobs?”

“Ah, don’t tell me you’ve grown a heart finally.”  Weasel shot back.  “Wade Wilson: Patron Saint of the Pitiful.”

“Whatever,” Wade rolled his eyes.  “Make me a blow job.  And I ain’t taking babysitting money, alright?  Make sure that gets back too Ms….”

“Orlovsky?”

“Yeah, her.”

“You know.”  Harry commented, the pair swinging their heads around at the crisp British accent, Wade with renewed interest in the cool drink of sexy water and Weasel in pure shock, having never heard Vixa speak before since Patch had run his set-up with Hellhouse.  “That’s rather warm-blooded of you…for a supposedly cold-blooded merc.”

“Cold-blooded, huh?”  Wade arched a brow, intrigued now with more than how the so-called _Vixa_ , that was a codename if he’d ever heard one, filled out his leather.  “Sounds like someone has heard of me.”

“Special forces, right?”  Harry arched a brow of his own.

“Sure.”  Wade shrugged.  “Baghdad, Mogadishu, Jacksonville.  Meeting new and exciting people.  It’s all on my Instagram.”

“And killing them.”  Weasel added, slapping a shot glass on the bartop and making the drink Wade had asked for.  “You left that part out.  And you.”  He gestured with the bottle of whipped cream towards Harry.  “I didn’t know you were British.”

“I didn’t know you were a fan of pointing out the obvious, either.”  Harry shot back, watching with blatant amusement as Wade sent the shot over to one merc with instructions to say it was from another.  “See?  We’ve all learned bright new things tonight.”

“Yeah?”  Weasel snorted.  “What’s Wade learned then?”

“That he likes the way my ass looks in these pants.”  Harry smirked as Wade tuned back in as first blood was drawn on the bar fight.

“That is very true.”  Wade agreed, flamboyantly craning his head over Harry’s shoulder to get a better look at the aforementioned ass as Bob tried his best to murder Buck for sending him the blow job shot.  “Cheers, to your health, and me getting in Vixa’s pants.”

The trio clinked glasses as Harry gave Wade a “give it your best shot” look.

“Fuck you.”  Weasel responded, sighing as a stool was the first real casualty of the fight.  “That was a new stool.”

Wade moved in on Harry, closing the bare inches of space between them as Weasel darted around the bar to check if Buck was still breathing as he laid breathing on the ground.

“So.”  Harry commented, tilting his head back a bare few inches to look up into mischievous hazel eyes that had more than a dash of chaos in them.  “Is this where you lay down a series of lines to try and get me to go back to your place?”

“Well.”  Wade started then held up one finger as Weasel called out that bad news.  Buck was still alive.  Wade groaned.  “Hold that thought.”

“No winners tonight, nice try Wade.”  Weasel said as the mercs all went back to their regular scheduled programming as if the fight had never happened.

“You got me.”  Wade shrugged.  “I picked Boothe for the dead pool.  Who’d you two go with?”

“Me?”  Harry gave the suddenly-nervous bartender a shit-eating grin.  “I picked Weasel.”

“You picked Weasel?”  Wade laughed.  “That’s cold.  I love it.  What about you?”

“Well, uh, Wade…”  Weasel tried to hedge, to no avail as the dead pool was marked on a chalkboard behind the bar for everyone to see.

“You didn’t…”  Wade drawled, frowning then found his own name.  “Motherfucker, you _did!_   You bet on me to die.  Nice, man, real nice.  You’re the world’s worst friend.  Jokes on you.”  He pointed, knocking back the rest of his drink.  “I’m going to live to one-hundred-and-two and then moving to Detroit.”

“Sorry Wade.”  Weasel shrugged, turning back to clearing glasses.  “I just wanted to win something.  I never win anything.”

“Whatever.”  Wade rolled his eyes then called out: “Soldiers of fortune, drinks on me.”

Tossing the money on the bar, he turned back to the enchanting Vixa as Weasel rushed to keep up with the orders his announcement created.

“So, Vixa.”  Wade smiled charmingly.

“You’re hot.”  Harry cut him off.  “And I’m amped from my job.  Save the chatter, fuck me until I can’t walk, and _then_ ,” he said over his shoulder as he started to walk away.  “Worry about using your fucked up version of charm to talk me into turning a one-nighter into something more.  Coming?”

“Not yet.”  Wade said as he darted forward eyes locked on that tight ass.  “But hopefully soon…”


End file.
